La Fuite Mariée
by somandalicious
Summary: She ran away from the wrong and he showed her the right. DMHG. Written for the 2009 hp secret santa exchange at lj.


- - -

It was raining.

It wasn't a polite drizzle or even a reasonable thundershower, either of which would have been acceptable, albeit not ideal. Instead it was very nearly a monsoon. A drenching and relentless harbinger that had Hermione Granger running like the devil in her ridiculously expensive, couture wedding gown.

The atrocious weather hadn't been the only bad omen that had her fleeing. No, they were numerous. Glaring, palpable. Like big, red, flashing flags that she couldn't possible ignore.

She'd tried, obviously. She had even made it to the altar before she'd fled, and yet all the bravery and courtesy that resided in her heart could not keep her there.

She had to go.

But his face. Oh, his face.

She was a terrible, horrid woman for running out on him.

Some will say she had developed a case of cold feet. Others might feel that she did him a favor. A few will hope she never comes back again.

All will think she'd gone mad.

Hermione was inclined to agree. She had obviously gone crazy.

She was making either the most brilliantly pivotal decision or the absolute worst mistake of her young life. It was too early to determine the outcome and yet.

And yet it felt terribly catastrophic. Like world famine or a sweeping tsunami.

Devastating.

She couldn't shake it either, and where the monsoon was rumored to refresh and cleanse a person of all their transgressions, instead it pounded at her in sadistic abasement.

Her bare feet made a sorrowful cadence on the pavement as she forced herself to disappear into the oblivion of London's streets.

She deserved nothing else.

When she closed her eyes, he was there, her former groom-to-be, watching her with everlasting confusion evident upon his handsome face.

And Hermione didn't think she could ever make him understand.

- - -

The dainty china teacup was cradled in the palm of Harry Potter's large hand as he nonchalantly relaxed against the counter in Hermione's kitchen. His hair was mussed carelessly and his clothes a tad wrinkled, but there was an air of unflappability that surrounded him. As if he had not a care in the world.

As if he was one cool cat, Daddy O.

It was the greatest enigma about him, and Hermione could never seem to figure it out.

How did a small, emotionally abused boy, who had spent the majority of his youth being stalked by great and terrible evil, come out the other side a laid-back, chilled out, downright awesome bloke?

It was illogical and yet Hermione envied it.

She was always frazzled hair and tightly wound nerves. The very epitome of neurotic.

Often she surmised that was why they were best mates. There was a balance to their relationship. Like yin and yang.

Sighing heavily, she looked down at her teacup and watched her finger circle the rim. "I buggered it up."

"Completely." Sip. Mirthful grin. Green eyes flashing. Another sip.

"He probably hates me," she murmured, pushing her hand into her hair and tangling her fingers into the curls at her temple.

"No way! You're great. Nobody could hate you," he promised. As sure about it as he was that there would be a Sunday after Saturday. Ever optimistic.

Hermione bristled a little.

"What should I do?" she asked. Because Harry always knew what to do. It was usually the exact opposite of what Hermione felt inclined to do, but it was infinitely simpler and better.

"Seeing as you won't talk to him or see him, I reckon you don't want to fix it." His eyes narrowed on her. "Yet. So I'd get out of town. Relax. See something amazing."

Hermione crunched her eyebrows together and scrunched her nose incredulously because he couldn't possibly be suggesting what she thought he was suggesting. Her mouth parted to clarify what precisely he had meant by that when he chuckled and shook his head. "Take the honeymoon, Hermione. It's paid for."

Like she said. Harry Potter was cool and profound. He always had it right.

- - -

The La Trémoille held court from a quiet and discreet corner in the Triangle d'Or. Right there in the heart of Romantic Paris. It was supposed to have been the perfect place to begin their lives as husband and wife. To celebrate their nuptials with luxury and splendor, and if they ever felt the need to stretch, it was within walking distance of fine expensive restaurants and all the major monuments. Ideal. Perfect.

But as Hermione waited for the bellhop to load her luggage, doom swept through the door manifested in Draco Malfoy himself and moved through the lobby with a swagger that only the devil could exert.

He turned heads, the room paused. Patrons wondered who he was and whispered to each other with speculation. All without a word from him; he simply had a presence that made people notice him.

When he spoke to the concierge, he flashed a smile so bright it lit up the world.

Draco Malfoy loved to be seen. He lived for it, thrived on it.

Hermione, on the other hand, tried to blend in with the wall paper. She like animosity, she craved it.

Yet she couldn't tear her eyes from Draco. He was like a flame, and she a moth.

Without a conscious thought, Hermione's body moved toward that flame in time to hear the concierge inform his blond patron that the room he'd requested was already booked. Draco's face was a stoic mask as he demanded to know who'd taken the room. When he was informed only of the nature of the occupant—a single woman—he smirked.

"Is madame, ready?" A tall, lanky man with hair so black that it shone blue stepped in front of Hermione, yanking her back to reality.

"Oui," she breathed and, giving him a small smile. Then for the briefest instant, her eyes met liquid silver. A silent question was posed and she whispered yes. After all, this getaway was about new things, a fresh start.

Draco slapped the counter good-naturedly. "When in Rome …."

The bellhop led Hermione toward the elevator. As much as she tried to pretend it was so, they weren't alone. Draco was strolling behind them nonchalantly, a satisfied, debonair grin upon his face.

Hermione attempted to ignore him and the silent agreement they'd just made. As they entered the elevator, she had nearly convinced herself that he was just another person in this world who just so happened to be staying at the same hotel as her. It was only chance. It meant nothing.

Nerves piled in her stomach when he stepped off the lift behind her. She'd agreed to share a suite—granted, the largest suite in the hotel—with Draco Malfoy. It had happened so quickly, she hadn't been able to really think about what she was doing. There's been something in his expression that made the decision for her, but she couldn't possibly identify it or what it meant.

Once their bags were deposited in the room, Draco handed the bellhop a few coins. Far too soon, Hermione was left alone with him.

By his expression, he found her unease incredibly amusing as he folded his arms over his chest.

With fists on her hips, she glared at him cynically. "I claim the bedroom."

He shrugged impassively but a haughty smirk played upon his mouth. "Naturally."

She felt defeated and dejected at his easy capitulation. "What will you do?"

He frowned, his grey eyes darkening ominously. "Perhaps the hotel had enough foresight to include a sleeper sofa in the honeymoon suite. After all, not every newlywed couple is without their share of problems."

Hermione gritted her teeth and without a word, Levitated her belongings into the bedroom. There was plenty of room between her and Draco—lots of wall and air and space.

- - -

Books had always been a great tool of distraction for Hermione. Especially fiction. When the world became too much for her shoulders to bear, she'd lose herself in a fantastic adventure. It was her only viable form of escapism because she was able to use her imagination while learning and exercising her mind.

Yet as she sat at Ladurée on Champs-Élysées, with a fresh cup of hot chocolate and violette macarons, she couldn't get away. The story wasn't connecting because her thoughts kept wandering back to the very things she didn't want to think about. Not even the majesty of the Arc de Triomphe could sway her thoughts. They were insistent and they made her feel terrible.

Honestly, that was the whole point of using the honeymoon to her advantage. To get away from the situation so that she could assess it properly. So that when she returned, she could deal with everything adequately. Because sometimes when you were too close to the problem, the solution becomes elusive. Sometimes you just have to step back.

Giving up her resistance, she allowed herself to ponder what she had done.

She loved him, yeah? Absolutely.

Wanted to grow old with him, right? Precisely.

Well, if she felt that way, then "Why are you in Paris?"

Hermione's eyes slid to the inquirer with annoyance evident upon her face. "Why are you?"

Draco relaxed against the bench, his long arm draped along the back as he watched a gangly mime perform a few yards away. "I'm getting away from it all. They call it a holiday,"

She glared at him. "I know what a Holiday is." Then she returned to her book. "It appears we are here for the same reason, then."

"I doubt it," he told her, his tone was void of emotion, his handsome face twisted into a scowl while his eyes followed the awkward movements of the dark-haired mime.

And Hermione watched Draco, wondering a thousand wonders. She liked figuring out puzzles and, for once, this one was easy.

Obviously, since she was running from love, then Draco must be looking for it.

Looking up at the Arc again, she supposed he had come to the right city, after all.

- - -

It was Old World Charm right down to the lacy curtains and the checkered table cloths. The aroma of gourmet French cuisine tempted her palate, and she was eager to taste everything from the menu but was reasonable enough just to order the Foie gras with a nice glass of the Chinon.

She was really starting to relax in the soothing ambience of La Fontaine de Mars. The music was soft, the lighting dim, the chatter hushed. So very intimate. She even began to consider that maybe, if she had married him, he'd be here with her and they'd plan their lives during dinner and then canoodle over dessert. It would have been romantic and perfect. Just as a honeymoon should be.

She was so absorbed in what could have been that she became overwhelmed with serenity.

Naturally, that feeling didn't last long. Not with Draco Malfoy dropping fluidly into the empty chair across from her.

Hermione's mouth dropped open, her eyes widened with disbelief, and the first thing that crossed her mind fell from her lips. "Not you again!"

He glanced at her derisively before snapping for the attention of a waiter. It was considerably rude. But that was Draco. He could ignore social courtesies and get away with it. It wasn't fair, and yet the world seemed to embrace it. Like he was a golden god.

Which he wasn't! Not even in the slightest!

"You can't just walk in here and sit down anywhere you like. You have to have a reservation," she told him.

A harried waiter, with very dark hair and a pale complexion, came to the table and inquired after Draco's beckoning. "I'll have what she's having," Draco replied, and when the waiter turned away, Draco returned his attention back to Hermione. "I do have a reservation. Right here with you." He gave her a full grin. One of maliciousness and intent to bother. She hated it when he smiled at her like that. It meant he was up to something more terrible than usual.

She leaned across the table and, lowering her voice, asked him, "What are you trying to do to me?"

From the breast-pocket of his dinner jacket, he withdrew a silver case which held his cigarettes. Lighting one, he took a deep pull of nicotine; his grey eyes never left hers. He seemed to study her, as if he was weighing his options, thinking of a fantastically snarky retort to spin her temper into bursting.

Instead, he leaned his elbow on the table, brought his face down to her level. "What are you running from?"

The question moved over her like the finest silk and Hermione sat back quickly. "I'm not running from anything!"

Draco Malfoy smirked, and when he spoke, his reply was just as evasive as hers. "Then I'm not trying to do anything to you."

It was moments like this when Hermione wished she believed in all that Divination malarkey.

- - -

Hermione had reserved the entire day to stroll du Musée du Louvre at her leisure. She even made a reservation for a private tour. After all, she was an academic and enjoyed learning about things she didn't know.

The Louvre held so much to see, so much to discover, and Hermione was thrilled at the prospect of it all.

Her plan did not include being shadowed by Draco Malfoy.

However, he seemed to keep his distance and she was allowed to enjoy herself. In fact, she didn't even mind his presence. For the most part, she hardly even noticed him.

Hermione followed the tour guide—a familiarly tall, dark haired fellow—through the mass of people. There were people everywhere, standing together in safe little clumps. She could hear different languages all around her, as different tour guides spoke in French, Spanish, Korean, and English. Each guide carried a long stick with something on the end—a bird, a flag, a flower—to identify which group he was leading.

Hermione was grateful for the private tour. She could ask as many questions as she wished, and her guide didn't seem bothered by it. He led her through another room full of paintings, each one a masterpiece in its own right. There were dozens of images of the Virgin Mary and her child all around her, and it was almost overwhelming how many Blessed Mothers were looking down on the room.

The room was shaped like an 'E' and they entered at the bottom. Hermione expected to exit through the top but the tour guide took her through the middle, into a room that was particularly crowded. She followed him blindly, trusting that he would not lead her astray. As he slowly made his way to the front of the crowd, Hermione tried to see what all the commotion was about, but there were simply too many people.

Finally the crowd parted, and the tour guide left her behind a velvet rope with a wink. When Hermione looked up at the single painting on the wall, a gasp escaped her throat. It was the Mona Lisa, the most famous painting in the entire world, and as she stared into the woman's eyes, the crowd around her seemed to blur; the sound of talking coalesced into white noise until she heard almost nothing. Though the painting was much smaller than she'd expected, it was still magical somehow.

There was something in Mona Lisa's eyes that sparked Hermione's imagination. That pulled her in and made her wonder. There was a twinkle in them. Happiness perhaps. Eternalized by the mere stroke of a brush.

It was her smile, though, that was most compelling, and it wasn't really an obvious smile. More of a secret just there in the corners of her mouth. Like that trite, old adage about smiling and making the world think you are up to something. Maybe she was. But what could Mona Lisa possibly be up to? "What is she thinking?"

"That she loves him," Draco said from beside her. She had been so lost in her thoughts that Hermione hadn't noticed he had moved next to her.

Yet, she wasn't startled at all, and when she glanced at him, it felt natural. Like she had known he'd always be next to her. She didn't find it strange or wrong at all. Just normal. Comfortable.

"Who?" she asked because she always wanted to know for sure. She couldnt just accept something at face value. There was always more to the story, and Hermione's nature was to know each detail in depth. She couldn't help her curiosity.

His shoulder lifted in something of a shrug as his grey eyes followed the lines of Mona's face. Like the way one would reacquaint themselves with that of a long lost lover. "Da Vinci?"

Hermione's head snapped back to the painting and pondered the idea. It was so simple and probable. And there was something in Mona Lisa's smile that suggested that maybe she did love him. That maybe she tolerated his idiosyncrasies because she couldn't imagine herself with anyone else. Maybe he'd told her a really terrible joke and she just couldn't believe that it had come out of his mouth. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe that's all that love really was. Just something small. Probable and yet so simply complicated. Maybe it's just the twinkle in an eye or the mystery of a smile.

Hermione didn't pull away when Draco slipped his palm against hers.

It was natural. Comfortable.

- - -

The third level of the Tour Eiffel was only accessible by lift and it moved at a moderate pace, but was so crowded that Hermione was pressed intimately against Draco. Somehow, she had accepted his intrusion on her holiday and eventually embraced it. That morning, when she had decided to visit the monument, she had asked him to accompany her. Figuring that he would have followed her anyway, but if she extended an invitation, it wouldn't be such an imposition.

When the doors to the lift opened, Hermione released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and, still grasping Draco's arm, departed with the crowd.

Immediately she was overwhelmed with awe because before her lay a panoramic view of all of Paris. She could see everything as it stretched to the horizon and perhaps beyond while the Siene cut a ribbon through the middle. It was a view that couldn't ever be described justly; that even a picture couldn't adequately translate its majesty.

Hermione's eyes swept along each rue, running with each crossing boulevard, her mind called out the names of everything she saw. Notre Dame, Monmatre, the Arc de Triomphe, countless museums, statues, hotels, restaurants, cars, people, homes. Draco.

And then that was all she ever wanted to see.

The lines of his face were softened into serenity and wonder as the coldest winds blew at his beautiful hair.

She had never met a more handsome man, and it made her heart ache.

"I shouldn't have run away."

He blinked slowly and, although he didn't move more than that, the muscle in his jaw flexed. "It was wrong," he told her, and it was apparent that he understood why she had run away. That _everything_ had been wrong. All wrong. The ceremony. The guests. Her stupidly expensive dress.

"It just wasn't about us anymore," she added.

He looked at her then, his expression grim, and his grey eyes churning with the pain he had never gotten the opportunity to express. "It was to me."

Tears filled her eyes, and she felt a shame unlike any she had ever felt before. "I'm sorry."

Two words that meant so much coming from her and yet didn't have the capacity to express the true weight of her regret, of her apology. They felt trite and cumbersome on her tongue.

He just stared at her. Like he couldn't figure her out or he didn't want to. Perhaps he didn't have the words to absolve her, and maybe his heart was empty of forgiveness. She couldn't tell and she was afraid to try.

"What about that man? With the camera?" he said then and, with a jerk of his head, gestured to the strange fellow that seemed to have been following Hermione all over Paris. The bellhop, the mime, the waiter and the tour guide. She realized then that they had all been the same person.

"He's just a man, Draco," she explained, not understanding what Draco's interest in him was, but feeling that she ought to.

"What if he is an officiate? One that I hired to be nearby for the appropriate moment."

Her eyes widened as realization poured over her. Questions ripped at her mind and curiosity burned through her body. But it wasn't the right time to interrogate him and would have to wait for another day. She knew what he was asking and it was so strange to see the usually over-confident Draco Malfoy shyly looking at her with fear and trepidation. Anticipation was not something he could deal with well. It never had been.

Taking a deep breath, she let the tears roll down her eyes. "I guess that would mean we could get married right here, right now."

Relief relaxed his shoulders and after he stepped closer to her, he took her hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her palm. "Do you think it would be right?"

Nodding, she stood on her tip-toes and just before she pressed her mouth to his, she said. "I do."

Because it was their moment. Tailor made only for them.

The end.

* * *

Written for the 2009 hp_secret_santa exchange at livejournal. Beta'd by Floorcoaster and mused by spadul and inadaze22. I would totally love feedback on this, please. Just let me know if you enjoyed it or not. Thanks babes3


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